destiny places before him a strange alternative. If he succeed
in resisting desires which everything excites and favors, what
painful struggles! If he yield to them, what effort can preserve
him an untainted mind? The experience of all time declares the
improbability that he will resist. So many pretended friends are
at hand to take up the cause of the present against the future,
a cause, too, which always finds a powerful patron in our own
bosoms! The pleasures of the senses have, besides, this dangerous
advantage, that before we have tasted them we are sufficiently
instructed by the imagination, that we shall receive vivid and
delightful emotions from their indulgence. We are not certain that
pleasures of a higher class have a charm of enchantment until after
we have made the happy experiment. Thus everything prepares the
opulent for the sadness of satiety, moral disgust and ennui without
end, the only suffering of life which is not softened by hope.
You will sometimes see these men at public places where they are
professedly in search of amusement, giving no sign of existence
except by an occasional yawn. Cast your eyes on those spectators
who are alive to the most vivid enthusiasm. They are young students
or mechanics who have economised ten days to spend an hour of the
eleventh in this amusement![21] It is in clean cottages, in small
but well directed establishments, that pleasures are vivid, because
they are obtained at a price, and through industry and order. A
festival is projected, or a holiday returns. Friends are assembled,
and how blithe and free is the joy! A slight economy has been
practised to supply the moderate expenses. There is high pleasure
in looking forward to the epoch and in making the arrangements in
anticipation. There is still more pleasure in the remembrance. When
the interval which separates us from pleasure is not very long,
even this interval has charms.
What a touching narrative is recorded of the suppers of two of
the greatest men of the past age, of whom one was the Abbe de
Condillac. Both were so poor that the expenses were reduced to
absolute necessaries. But what conversations prolonged the repast,
and with what swiftness flew the enchanted hours! Neither great
genius nor profound acquirements are necessary to enjoy evenings
equally pleasant.
In an establishment of moderate competence, those who compose it
rarely leave it. All the joys which spring up in the bosom of
a beloved family seem to have been created for them. Give them
riches, without changing their hearts, and they would taste less
pleasure. New duties and amusements would trench upon a part of
that time which had hitherto been sacred to friendship. More
conversant with society, they would be less together. Receiving
more visitants, they would see fewer friends. Transported into a
new sphere where a thousand objects of comparison would excite
their desires, they would, perhaps, for the first time, experience
privations and regrets.
Women and young people taste the advantages which a retired,
pleasant and modest condition offers only so long as they avoid
comparisons of that lot with one which the world considers more
favored. _We must carry into the world a high philosophy, or never
quit our retreat._
Persons even of a disciplined reason, just thought and a noble
character, may grow dizzy, for a moment, with the splendor and
noise of opulence, perceived for the first time. But as soon
as they begin to blush and forfeit self-respect in tracing the
causes of their intoxication, the scene vanishes, and, as they
contemplate and compare, it is replaced by the sentiment of their
own happiness. In the midst of the brilliant crowd they experience
a legitimate pride in saying, ‘from how many regrets and cares am I
saved! How many futilities are here, of which I have no need!’
But I shall be told that opulence has at least this advantage,
that it attracts consideration. There is no doubt that many people
measure the esteem they pay you by the scale of your riches. You
will never persuade them that merit often walks on foot, while
stupidity rides in a carriage.
But will a man esteem himself a philosopher, and take into his
calculation the opinion of such fools as these? In a circle where
opulence puts forth its splendor, when you experience a slight
revulsion of shame in perceiving that the simplicity of your dress
is remarked, ask yourself if you would change your mode of life,
character and talents with those around you? If you feel that you
would not, repress the weakness of wishing incompatible advantages;
and resume the self-respect of an honest man.[21a]
To be satisfied with a moderate fortune is, perhaps, the highest
test and best proof of philosophy. All others seem to me doubtful.
He who can live content on a little, gives a pledge that he would
preserve his probity and courage in the most difficult situations.
He has placed his virtue, repose and happiness as far as possible
above the caprices of his kind, and the vicissitudes of earthly
things.
There are moments when the desire of wealth penetrates even the
retreat of a sage, not with the puerile and dangerous wish to
dazzle with show, but with the hope, dear to a good mind, that
it might become a means of extended usefulness. When imagination
creates her gay visions, we sometimes think of riches, and in our
dreams make an employment of them worthy of envy. What a delightful
field then opens before those who possess riches? They can
encourage the progress of science, and aid in advancing the glory
of letters. How much assistance they can offer to deserving young
people whose first efforts announce happy dispositions, and whose
character, at the same time, little fitted for worldly success,
is a compound of independence and timidity? How much they may
honor themselves in decking the modest retreat of the aged scholar
who has consecrated his life to study, and who has neglected his
personal fortune to enrich the age with inventions of genius! They
have the means of giving a noble impulse to the arts, without
trenching upon their resources. A picture, which perpetuates the
remembrance of a generous or heroic exploit, costs no more than
a group of bacchanalians or debauchees. A career more beautiful
still, is open to opulence. Of how many vices and how many tears it
may dry the source! A rich man, to become happy, has only to wish
to become so. He can not only immortalize his name as the patron of
arts and useful inventions, but, what is better, can deserve the
blessings of the miserable. Such pleasures are durable, and may be
tasted, with unsated relish, after a settled lassitude from the
indulgence of all others.[22]
Let not such seducing dreams, however, leave us a prey to ambitious
and disappointing desires at our awakening. It is in the sphere
where Providence has placed us, that we must search for the means
of being useful; and if there are pleasures which belong only to
opulence, there are others which can best be found in mediocrity.
Perhaps, in giving us riches, we shall realize but half the dream
of virtue and contentment. ‘It seems to me,’ says Plato, ‘that gold
and virtue were placed in the opposite scales of a balance; and
that we cannot throw an additional weight into one scale, without
subtracting an equal amount from the other.’
LETTER XI.
OF OPINION AND THE AFFECTION OF MEN.
In selecting the same route, in which the agitated crowd
is pressing onward, we are evidently on the wrong road to
happiness; since we hear the multitude on every side expressing
dissatisfaction with their life. If we choose a different path,
we cannot expect to evade the shafts of censure, since the same
multitude are naturally disposed, from pride of opinion, to think
all, not on the same road with themselves, astray. It is, then, an
egregious folly to hope for a happiness thus pursued by system,
and for the approbation of the vulgar at the same time. Among the
obstacles which are at war with our repose, one of the greatest,
and at the same time most frivolous, is the fatal necessity of
becoming of importance to others, instead of becoming calmly
sufficient to ourselves. Like restless children, always seduced
by appearances, it is a small point, that we are happy in our
condition. We desire that it should excite envy. A happiness
which glares not in the eyes of the multitude, compelling them to
take note of it, is no longer regarded as happiness. There are
both dupes and victims of opinion. Those who are devoured by the
fever of intrigue, and those who, to dazzle others, dissipate
their fortune, are the miserable victims. The dupes are those who
voluntarily weary themselves out of three quarters of their life,
and offer this as their apology--‘these visits, these ceremonies,
these evening parties! they are tiresome, we grant. But we must
mix with good company.’ Why not always mix with the best--your own
enlightened and free thoughts?
I shall be obliged to present one truth under a thousand forms. It
is that much courage is exacted for the attainment of happiness.
Such a man has estimable qualities, an interesting family, tried
friends, a fortune equal to his wants. His lot ought to seem a
delightful one. How differently the public judge! ‘This man,’
says the public, ‘has intelligence. Why has he not increased
his fortune? He is able to distinguish himself. Why has he not
sought place or office? He seems to stand aloof, that he may pique
himself on a proud and foolish originality. We judge him less
favorably. Every one distinguishes himself, that can. To be without
distinction is a proof that he has not power to acquire it.’ If the
man, of whom this is said, has not courage, mourn over him. The
public will end, by rendering him ashamed of his happiness.
To hear the false reasoning of the multitude is not what astonishes
me. That stupid people, full of self-esteem, should hold these
foolish discourses, with strong emphasis, is perfectly natural.
What I wonder at is, that their maxims should guide people of
understanding.
We are guilty of the whimsical contradiction of judging our own
ideas with complacency, and of pronouncing upon those of others
with severity. Yet we every day sacrifice principles which we
esteem, through fear of being blamed by people whom we despise.[23]
The moment I escape the yoke of opinion, what a vast and serene
horizon stretches out before my eyes! The pleasures of vanity
scatter, like morning mists. Those of repose and independence
remain. I no longer sacrifice to the disquieting desire of
preserving a protector, or eclipsing my rivals. I am no longer the
slave of gloomy etiquette. I henceforward prolong my delightful
evenings for my own enjoyment. The caprices of men have lost
their empire over me. If poor, I shall remain a stranger to the
pains excited by blasting ridicule and overwhelming contempt. If
rich, indolent and impertinent people will no longer regulate
my expenses; and the happy choice of my pleasures will multiply
my riches. These are presented to a wise man in two opposite
relations. Do they call for a service? The most tender interest
excites him to their aid. Do they show a disposition to manage him?
He meets the attempt only with profound disdain. He who possesses a
disciplined reason, and a courageous mind, does not choose to walk
by the faith of a feeble and uncertain guide, who has need himself
to be led. Allow yourself to become docile to the eccentric laws
of opinion, and the slave of its imperious caprices, and follow
it with the most earnest perseverance of loyalty; still it will
finally terminate in condemning you.
But hypocrisy opens against me, and feeble men ask me, if it be
not dangerous, thus to inculcate contempt of opinion? In following
but a part of the ideas, which I announce, my readers might be led
astray. The whole must be adopted, for a fair experiment of the
result. A physician had chosen many plants, from which to form a
salutary decoction. His patient swallowed the juice of but one and
was poisoned.
Let us discard that timidity, which conducts to falsehood; and, to
subserve morals, let us be faithful to truth. The wicked and the
sage alike break the yoke of opinion; the former to increase his
power of annoyance; the latter that of doing good.
I can conceive, that a depraved man will commit fewer faults, in
yielding to the caprices of opinion, than in abandoning himself to
his own errors. There are cruel passions and shameful vices, which
he reproves even in the midst of his aberrations. But in doing so
he gives to falsehood the name of politeness, and to cowardice the
title of prudence. His favorite inculcation is, _the terror of
ridicule_. To form true men, it is indispensable, that this precept
should be engraven on their hearts--_Fear nothing but remorse_.
The simple and generous mind, that follows these lessons, and is
worthy of happiness, need not blush, in view of his course. Only
let him march on with unshrinking courage. In breaking the yoke
of opinion, let him fly the still more shameful chains which the
passions impose. In contemning the prejudices of the multitude
dread still more those fatal instructers, who treat morality as a
popular fable, and pretend to the honor of dispelling our errors.
The aberrations of opinion prove only, that the most bold, not the
most virtuous, press forward to announce their principles. These
principles cannot annihilate that secret and universal opinion,
that voice of conscience, without which the moral world would have
presented only a chaos; and the human race would have perished.
Consult those men, who have been instructed by the lessons of
wisdom and experience. Consult those whom you would choose to
resemble. Their first precept will be, that you descend into
yourself. If we interrogate conscience, in good faith, she will
enlighten us. She makes herself heard in the tumult of our vices,
even against our will. If she become distorted, during the storm of
our passions, she recovers the serenity of truth, as soon as that
passes away; as a river, which has been agitated by a tempest, as
soon as calm returns, reflects anew the verdure of the shores and
the azure of heaven.
If there were a people formed by sage laws, whose words were
frank, and whose actions upright, there it would be a duty to
hearken to the voice of opinion in religious silence; and to follow
its decrees, as though they were those of the divinity. Phocion
asked, what foolish thing he had done when the Athenians applauded
him? Happy the country, where this would have been a criminal
pleasantry, and where the pages of that chapter which condemns
opinion ought to be torn out.
Perhaps I may be accused of contradiction, in saying that, in the
enlightened pursuit of happiness, the opinion of the multitude
must be received with neglect; and yet, that it is pleasant to be
esteemed by the society, of which we are members. We receive their
services, and ought to know the pleasure of obliging them. We often
share those weaknesses, which we censure in them. Our multiplied
relations with them render their affection desirable. It may not
be necessary to happiness; but it gives to enjoyment a more vivid
charm.
May we be able, in pursuing the path indicated by wisdom, to obtain
esteem, and taste the delight of a sentiment still pleasanter, and
more precious. Friendship is, to esteem, what the flower is to the
stem which sustains it.
But I can never imagine, that we ought to become subservient to the
caprices of opinion. We should first be satisfied with ourselves;
and afterwards, if it may be, with others. To merit affection, I
perceive but two methods; to love our kind, and to cultivate those
virtues which diffuse a charm over life.
LETTER XII.
OF THE SENTIMENT MEN OUGHT TO INSPIRE.
There is no such being as a misanthrope. The men designated by
this name, may be divided into many classes. In one class I see
men of philosophic minds, revolted by our vices, or shocked by
our contradictions, who censure these universal traits with a
blunt frankness. Their disgust springs from the evils, which the
universal follies of the age have shed upon our career. But if they
really hated men, would they wield the pen of satire, in striving
to correct them?
Another class consists of those unfortunate beings, who hope to
find peace only in solitude. They fly a world which has pierced
their heart with cruel wounds; and perhaps avow, in words, an
implacable hatred towards men. But their sensibility belies their
avowal; and we soothe their griefs, as soon as we ask their
services.
Finally, there are those who strive only to render themselves
singular, who are really less afflicted, than whimsical; rather
officious than observing. These would tire us with the avowal
of their love of mankind, if they did not deem that they render
themselves more piquant and original by declaring that they hate
them.
We may excuse indignation towards prejudices, contradictions and
vices. But how can man have merited hatred or contempt? Man is
good. Such is his primitive character, which he can never entirely
efface. Good, but seduced, erring and unhappy, he has claims upon
our most tender interest.
I do not propose to vex the question whether man is born good? I
consider him to be born without either virtue or vice. But as he
advances in life, nature arranges everything around him in such a
manner, as ought to render him good. A mother is the first object
that offers to his view. The first words which he hears express the
tenderest affection. Caresses inspire his first sentiments; and his
first occupations are sports.
Too soon, it is true, very different objects surround him. As he
grows into life, he is struck with such a general spectacle of
injustice, as reverses his ideas, and sours his character. But,
although the contagion reaches him, and the passions and prejudices
degrade him, some traits of his primitive goodness will always
remain in his heart.
Even those terrible enthusiasts, who thrust themselves forward
in the effervescence of party, who, to give triumph to their
cause, blow up the incipient flame of civil discord, and with an
unshrinking hand raise the sword of proscription, these fanatics
may be strangers to every humane sentiment. Yet many of them are
seen to love their wives and children with tenderness, and to
preserve in the bosom of their family, so to speak, the germs of
innocence. Robbers, the horror of society, whom the gibbet claims,
honor themselves with some acts of humanity; and tyrants have their
days of clemency.
During great calamities, natural sentiments develope themselves,
and form a touching contrast with the scenes of horror with which
they are surrounded. When a destructive conflagration is sweeping
along a city, there are no distinctions, no animosities among the
wretched sufferers, whom the same terror pursues. Enemies forget
their hatred, and partisans their parties. The rich and poor cry
out together. All love and aid each other. Misfortune has broken
down the separating barriers of pride and prejudice, and they find
each other good and equal.
Even upon the theatre of war, where the spectacle of destruction
excites an appetite to destroy, we often discover affecting traces
of humanity. At the siege of Mentz, in 1795, I remember that the
advanced guards of the attack on the left, occupied an English
garden, near the village of Montback. The garden was completely
destroyed. The walks and labyrinths were changed, by the trampling
of the soldiers, into high roads. Batteries were raised upon the
mounds, from distance to distance, around which still grew rare
trees and shrubs. The French bivouacs banished the verdure of the
bowling greens; and in advance of them, a half overturned kiosk
served for the front guard of the Austrians. The nearest water
was on their side; the nearest wood on the side of the French. To
obtain water, the French threw their canteens to the Austrians,
who filled them and sent them back again. When night drew on, the
French soldiers, in return, cut wood for the Austrians, and dragged
fagots between the videttes of the two armies. Thus, waiting the
signal to cut each other’s throat, the advance guards lived in
peace, and made exchanges like those between friendly people. This
spectacle excited in me a profound emotion; and I was scarcely able
to refrain from tears, in seeing men, so situated, still good, on a
soil red with blood.[24]
This primitive goodness is not the only beautiful trait which is
continually developing to our view in human nature. For men to
be generous, and magnanimous, the soul never entirely loses the
elevation, which it received from its author.
Under oppression, in degradation, in slavery, men still preserve
some impress of their first dignity. Those outrages which inflict
personal humiliation, are among the most frequent causes of
revolutions; and, perhaps tyrants incur less danger in shedding the
blood of citizens, than in insulting them. An outrage upon a woman
was the signal of the liberty of Rome. A similar crime drew on the
fall of the Pisistrati, who had found no obstacle in overturning
the laws of their country. The Swiss and Danes supported the rigors
of a tyrannic yoke in silence. They arose the first day in which
their oppressors exacted of them an act of degradation. Genoa had
been conquered. An Austrian officer struck a man of the lower
class. The indignant Genoese flew to arms, and drove away their
conquerors.
Under the most absolute despotism, we sometimes see the subjects
preserving magnanimous sentiments; and not being able to give them
a useful direction, put forth, to serve their master, a courage
equal to that with which free citizens honor themselves in serving
their country. Of this I might cite striking proofs from the
history of even barbarous nations.
A convincing demonstration, that an innate principle of elevation
exists in the soul, results from the universality of religious
ideas. Man is discouraged by his errors, his infirmities and faults
in vain. An interior voice admonishes him of his high destination.
Transient as he is, and comparatively lost in the immensity of
the universe, he invokes the Divinity to sanctify the union of
his espousals, and to preside over the birth of his infants. He
raises his voice to him over the tombs of his fathers. When the
contemplation of the works of the Eternal has inspired him with
humble sentiments of himself, he still deems himself superior to
all the beings that surround him. Occupying but a point on the
globe, his disquieting thoughts embrace the universe. He beholds
time devouring the objects of his affections, crumbling monuments
and overturning even the works of nature. From the midst of the
ruins he aspires to immortality.[24a]
What would not these sentiments, at once elevated and good, these
precious germs produce, were they developed by happy circumstances!
That they exist in the human bosom is a sufficient indication that
we owe a tender interest to the being who possesses them. Let us
love our kind, and cultivate the virtues which render us worthy of
their affection.
LETTER XIII.
OF SOME OF THE VIRTUES.
Placed in the midst of men, the most useful virtue is indulgence.
To allow ourselves to become severe, is to forget how many good
qualities we want ourselves; and from what faults we are preserved
only by chance and our circumstances. It is to forget the weakness
of men, and the empire exercised over them by the objects that
surround them. To render exact justice to our kind, we ought to
take into the estimate all the assistance and all the obstacles,
with which they have met in their career. Thus weighing them,
celebrated actions will become less astonishing, and faults begin
to appear excusable.
By cultivating the spirit of indulgence, we learn the happy secret
of being well with ourselves, and well with men. Some carry into
their intercourse with the world an austere frankness. They are
dreaded, and the opposition which they every day experience,
increases their disagreeable and tiresome roughness, and their
officious rudeness. Others, blushing at no complaisance, and
equally supple and false, smile at what displeases them; praise
what they feel to be ridiculous; and applaud what they know to be
vile. Be indulgent, and you will not sacrifice self-esteem; and
your frankness, far from annoying, will render your affability more
amiable.
The less we occupy ourselves with the vices and aberrations of men,
the more pleasant does existence become. Indulgence carries its own
recompense with it, and causes us to see our kind almost such as
they should be.